


at leith central station

by ABitNotGood (EggsyUnwin), lordofthedreadfort



Category: Trainspotting (1996)
Genre: M/M, t1.5, you thought pynchon was obsessed with the postal service
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-25 11:27:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9818327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EggsyUnwin/pseuds/ABitNotGood, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordofthedreadfort/pseuds/lordofthedreadfort
Summary: Sick Boy,I don’t know if it’s the lack of skag, or the lack of you lot, but fuck me, Amsterdam is boring.Renton(alternatively: how not to deal with a bad breakup)





	1. Denial

**Author's Note:**

> We're drawing off book canon, except for in the case of Sick Boy's canonically terrible hair.
> 
> This is just as plausible as the actual events unfolding post Trainspotting. Just ask Irvine Welsh. (Please don't)

 

Renton,

Fuckin ace one!! Beggars blew the fuckin roof off the hotel when he woke up. Where are we meeting? I was gonnae send this to your flat in Leith but figured that was too obvious. Can't believe you had it in ya.

Shocking. Positively shocking!

Sick Boy

 

 

Mark,

Are you ~~alright~~ in debt? You fuckin waster. Could've told me if you needed all the money. Bell me when you get this.

Sick Boy

 

 

 

Begbie is wasted, slamming his pint glass down on the bar counter until the liquid sloshes over. He’s ranting about Renton again: radge cunt, fuckin betrayer, took ma money n fuckin scarpered, ah’ll kill him, ah’ll fuckin destroy him. It’s all quite boring, when it gets down to it – Begbie never has much originality. That’s his real issue, Sick Boy decides, as he glances warily towards the pub entrance and wonders how best to make his retreat. No fuckin originality.

Without Renton, the company in Leith has grown tiresome. Spud is his usual self; Begbie has grown into an almost parodic version of himself, spitting and frothing at the edges; and the more Begbie material he is given, the more Sick Boy sorely misses Renton’s company, and the ways in which they used to mercilessly mock him. That’s all he misses Renton for, really.

\--- Ah, Franco, ah’ve really gottae go, he hears himself saying with a forced apology on the end of the words. --- But ah agree – we’ll git Renton yin day. Fuck him!

Sick Boy slams his fist on the table in a theatrical gesture of support. Begbie looks faintly appeased but not enough to dull the threat; his eyes hang low and heavy as he watches Sick Boy beat a hasty retreat from the pub.

It’s cooler outside, and as soon as Sick Boy leaves the cloying atmosphere of the pub he feels the tension seep from his shoulders. It’s difficult keeping up the pretence around Begbie, and the longer the charade goes on the more Sick Boy grows bored of keeping his secret – he feels restless, adrenaline tunnelling through his body. It can’t be much longer before Renton comes back with the money, right? He’s been waiting long enough.

From across the road, Sick Boy can see the Rentons. It’s only Cathy and Dave now, and even they look like ghosts as they drift across the pavement, ravaged and hollowed out by their losses. It had been cowardly of him, perhaps, to have not come back to Scotland for Billy’s funeral – but anyway, it wasn’t anything to do with him, Billy was Renton’s brother.

Cathy looks upset, tearful. Sick Boy advances across the road before he can rethink the impulse, hurrying over the kerb as a car skids past.

\--- How’s it goin? He asks, breathlessly, as he catches up with the two of them. Cathy looks at him first, then Davie: they both seem to look past him, as though he is not really there, before their eyes refocus. Renton had looked at him like that occasionally, but he’d had heroin to blame for that. What did the Rentons have?

\--- Oh, Simon, Cathy starts, offering him a wavering smile. --- Same as usual.

\--- Huv ye heard from Mark?

He hates how desperate and wheedling he sounds; like a child in a playground. Cathy looks at him as though he is five. Sick Boy hates that.

\--- Nae, Davie answers abruptly. --- Ah wouldnae git yer hopes up Simon.

\--- Aye, Sick Boy replies slowly, feeling something flat and leaden stir in his chest. --- Ah’ll see ye around.

Renton wouldn’t screw him over – Sick Boy knows that. He wouldn’t be brave enough. But the further away he walks from the wreckages of the Rentons, the less confident he is of using Renton’s character flaws as evidence. After all, together they’d fucked over practically every other person in Edinburgh. One or the other of them was bound to be next. Sooner or later they were gonnae fuck each other over.

 

 

 

Renton,

The only reason I’ve not tracked you down and killed you already is I should’ve fuckin known you were gonnae do something like this.

You know, for a second, whilst Begbie was goin radge, Spud was crying, and Second Prize was yellin in the corner (took him a bit longer to cotton to what’d gone on, but believe me, he was pissed as hell when he got the jist of it). Well, for a second I felt proud of you for not being as much a gadgie as we’d always thought. Well done, Rents, you managed to impress even me with how much of a cunt you can fuckin be, that must count for somethin.

 ~~The thing I want to know~~ I’m not writing because I miss you because I’m fuckin relieved to not have to stare at your shit face anymore. I’m writing so you dinnae think you’ve got away with owt. I’m writing so you’re always looking over your shoulder, waiting for the day when there’s a shadow behind you and the last thing you ever see is me. And Begbie.

Embras’s crap this time of year as you well know. London’s not much better.

I hope your plane crashed and your burnin in the fuckin channel you cunt.

Your ever obedient fuckin servant, Sick Boy

 

 

Si,

I don’t know if you’ll read this. ~~I can’t explain~~ I hope you’re well.

 ~~I’m just really fuckin~~ I’m sorry.

Renton

 

 

Renton,

Fuck you. Fuck London. And fuck friendship because that obviously means shit all to you. You cunt. You radge fucking cunt.

~~Don’t you ever dare.  
~~

~~Where the hell are~~

Just, fuck you.

 

 

Si,

The weather’s better than Leith ever is this time of year. I think I might’ve found a job. ~~I thought about coming back. I’ve thought about calling home, or you, fifty times.~~

I hope you’re all well.

I don’t think I’ll be sending this.

From,

Renton.

 

 

 

The patterned paper is curling away from the wall like it’s disgusted to touch the mould revealed underneath. There’s a clogging taste of damp in the air, even in the heat of the early summer, the water in the air never quite settling except on the ceiling where it clumps into drops threatening to fall on his head. The bed’s backed against an external wall, welcoming the cold even in this dank heat. Maybe he’ll move his head to the other end of the bed tomorrow, avoid the rising damp.

When he first came here, years and lives ago, on that stupid cruise with Sick Boy, Renton was sure he’d found the perfect place, promised himself he’d do whatever it took to come back. ---Well, wee Renton, he thought, look what ah’ve achieved. Amsterdam glowed like a fucking green light back then. Now, it flickered like a flame about to drop out.

The scratched and abused postcard lies on the shitty end table. He’s already written the address out, as if he ever intended to send the thing out; now it’s mocking him, knowing he’ll never have the guts to post the damn thing. Memories that he tries not to remember and never wants to forget hover on the surface, threatening to plunge him into depression if he doesn’t get some skag soon. But Amsterdam’s a different scene. It’s easy pickings sure, and he’s got the cash, but he’s alone here.

On the boat out of London it’d been easy to think that he was worth the whole damn bunch of them put together – it was easy money and his for the taking. They’d’ve done the same shit to him with less crises of conscience. Lying alone in a cheap, pay by night motel, it was harder to find that earlier righteous conviction.

He’d done what he had to. He’d done what any’ve them would’ve done. Disnae need to justify himself to anyone, writing to them’ll just open it all up again. There’s no need to get sentimental about this shit. Sick Boy wouldn’t; Sick Boy never did.

A siren blares outside, an unfamiliar pitch reminding him he’s in a different capital now. Renton makes his mind up, pulls his jacket on, and grabs a few from the pile of cash to help ease him into the night. No need for a locker or a safe – he doesn’t look like he’s got nothing to steal. No one’s gonnae be looking round here for anything to steal.

Renton knows what he looks like. He doesn’t exactly look the type to be hoarding fifteen and a half k.

He barely remembers to lock the door on his way out.

 

 

 

Rent Boy,

How can a friend be in debt? How in fuckin deed, Sean. You owe me 16 fuckin k you cunt. Get your ass back here before I drag you back. I always liked you, Mark, I never fuckin understood you, but I always liked you.

Fuckin come back.

Simon

 

 

Sick Boy,

I don’t know if it’s the lack of skag, or the lack of you lot, but fuck me, Amsterdam is boring.

Renton

 

 

Renton,

Your ma misses you. Yer dad says it less so but I can see he does too. I always liked your ma. More than you did it seems. That’s a shun move leaving them without any kids. They don’t have the best track record your family, d’they?

Your ma tells me how you’re gonnae come back any day now. What then? D’you expect we’ll just talk? I expect you’ll die, but that’s your problem if you get in old Francis’ way. I guess I’ll chum him to get you too. Why not, eh?

Anyway, your ma tells me you’re probably sorry. I wanted to tell her I didn’t give a fuck if you were sorry. But I didn’t, your ma’s always liked me. No point spoiling something good like that.

Sick Boy

 

 

Simon,

One day I’ll bring all your money back for you. I promise.

Renton

 

 

Mark,

One day I’ll make you wish you ~~never left us~~ ~~never left me~~ were never born. I promise. 

Simon

 

  

Sick Boy,

You would’ve done the same fuckin thing you cunt if you’d thought of it first. You’re just fucked off you didn’t, aren’t you? Well fuck you, Si. Fuck you.

Renton

 

 

~~Sick Boy,~~

~~Oh fuck, I actually sent that last one, didn’t I? _Shit_~~

 

 

 

-–- Stupid fuckin thing!

Postboxes in Amsterdam are painted a garish red-orange, dotted like warning beacons around the city. They make Renton feel oddly like he has been lost at sea. Usually the thought unsettles him – now it seems preferable to his actual reality.

-–- Fuck! No no no no

He grips the open mouth of the postbox and peers into it, trying to source his creased postcard in the half light. Nothing. He rattles the box as a test and it barely moves; even when he puts his whole weight behind it and tries to rock it over, very little happens beyond a tentative crowd beginning to form in a half-circle around the area. When he speaks again, his voice cracks in abject desperation.

-–- This cannae be fuckin happening! Whit kind ay piece of shit box cannae be opened?

Renton thinks with frozen horror of the inscription of the postcard; the way he had drilled his pen into the card when writing Sick Boy's familiar address, feeling a simultaneous pang of longing in his chest as the nib of his pen had dented the surface of the postcard. He slams his fist against the side of the box and recoils at the sharp jolt of pain.

-–- Are you okay? A woman approaches him from behind, her voice controlled as though she is approaching a caged animal. Renton turns, too quickly.

-–- Aye, I'm – fine. I need tae get intae the box, I posted the wrong thing by mistake, stupid me! He offers her an attempt at a cajoling smile as he flattens his accent out; as if he is shedding a past skin.

-–- You can't get into it now. She doesn't seem as sympathetic as Renton feels she should be – almost as if she doesn't understand the enormity of the situation.

-–- But ah need tae!

-–- The entire postal service doesn't revolve around your needs, she tells him frostily before walking off. Renton watches her go, eyes unfocused. He is too busy trying to remember if there had been any identifying features on the postcard: the image had been of a long-limbed woman with heavy breasts, artfully censored with the little white crosses on the Amsterdam flag. Would Sick Boy know the Amsterdam flag?

 _Think think think_ he counsels himself, feeling the sickening lick of panic in his chest.

_Mebbe he'll throw it away before readin it._

He shoves at the postbox again, as if he might catch it off guard. When it remains placid and immoveable, he exhales a long, calming breath that shudders through his entire body and walks off, a plan forming in the back of his mind.

 

 

 

Dear Mr Williamson,

I regret to inform you that the previous letter you have received, supposedly from a Mr. Renton, was in fact a forged document. It has absolutely no bearing on the character or intentions of the said Mr. Renton, and the Royal Mail would urge you to consider the letter as nothing more than evidence of a failing bureaucratic operation.

Please accept our sincerest apologies on behalf of the Royal Mail ~~and the aforementioned Mr Renton~~

The Royal Mail

~~this is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done~~


	2. Anger, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rents,
> 
> Fuck you. Seriously fuck you.
> 
> Sick Boy

MR,

I guess showin a bit of fuckin humility was too much for your pretentious cunt ass to entertain, even after robbin me of 16 fuckin k ~~!!!!!!!~~ but that's my problem, thinking you're less of a waster than you are. ~~I don't get it~~ ~~Why did you even fuckin bother getting back in touch~~  I hope you inject the whole 16k and choke on your own vomit

 ~~We could've gone halves~~ The only reason I haven't shopped you to Begbie is cos I don't want to give him or you the fuckin satisfaction.

You won't even see me fuckin coming – unlike you, I don't get my kicks from taunting people from afar

Simon David Williamson

~~PS You couldn't even pay for a fuckin stamp with all that stolen money??? Doss cunt! That's another £1 you owe me~~

 

 

 

It's no surprise that Renton's postcard reeks of Europe. He always had ideas above his station in that regard; fannying about with his well-off university friends in Berlin and Istanbul and a dozen other uninspiring locations around the world, as if he was attempting to live a thousand banal lives in one. Leaving Sick Boy alone during the cool Leith summers to the dregs of the Bannany flats, watching the buildings sweat out poverty through the growing strains of damp mould in the corners. Sure, Sick Boy had ventured to Paris and Italy, but never with the same concept of cultural pursuit that had gripped Renton. 

Sick Boy doesn't show anyone else the postcard: its maddening clues are there for him alone, and at any rate it will only dilute his eventual satisfaction if anyone else disturbs the strange, ornamental resonance the postcard holds.

If anyone can track Mark Renton down, it is Sick Boy.

He runs his thumbs over the swell of the postcard woman's breasts with a subconscious thoughtfulness, and then flips the postcard over again. Renton's handwriting is cramped and messier than usual. _You would've done the same fuckin thing_ , the postcard accuses. For a moment, Sick Boy allows himself the fantasy of imagining Renton in front of him – so that he can very smugly pat Renton on the shoulder and tell him, ye cannae alleviate yir guilt by talking in hypothetical situations. Then he'd slam Renton's head against the wall until the plaster flaked.

But the fantasy sours almost immediately – because Renton isn't here, and almost instantly his absence feels like a gaping hole in the room, expanding from the well-worn postcard. Sick Boy feels suddenly cold, as though he is experiencing withdrawal all over again: in a fit of frustration he hurls the postcard at the wall, but it's too flimsy and weightless to properly throw and so it settles, mockingly, inches away from his foot.

He picks up the letter instead. Stupid fuckin Royal Mail scam – even if it had been well executed, it isn't as if Sick Boy hasn't watched Renton forge official documents in the past for the sheer hell of it. He likes the letter a lot better, at any rate, because he can almost hear Renton's blinding panic through the careful wording. _Serves him right_ , he thinks, _he should feel fuckin bad aboot it_. He certainly will by the time Sick Boy's finished with him.

He had almost ripped the envelope in two in his embarrassing haste to open the letter: only now, as he grabs for it again, does he notice he's missed the biggest clue of all.

For on the envelope is a printed postmark: NLAMSA. Amsterdam, Holland.

 

 

 

Renton,

I don’t ken exactly where you are. I have a word on a fuckin postcard. That you sent anglin for an apology on your own fuckin scam. I wanted to believe it wasn’t you what sent it but it’s typical Renton aint it, looking out for yourself and putting it all on us.

Well fuck that narrative, Mark.

 

 

 ~~Sick Boy, Simon~~  Sick Boy,

I hope you’re well. I hope this is the first you’ve heard from me. I’m so sorry. About the money, and running, and the post card.

I like to imagine you accept my apology now and we move on. But there ain’t nothing I could do to make you accept that now, is there?

I really fucked this up, didn’t I?

 ~~Renton~~  No point signing off – I’m never gonna send this shit out

 

 

Rents,

Fuck you. Seriously fuck you. And know please, wee Mark, that the second you step foot anywhere near Leith again I’ll ~~completely fuck you~~ completely fuck you up. I bet you think you’re so smart, running across Europe. Did you remember that ferry, eh? Think how nice it’d been for a bit of time, decide to go back? Amsterdam’s too damn small to hide you now.

It’s not just me of course what wants to find you. Spud’s spiralling worse than ever, the fuckin embarrassment. Aye, and there’s Franco of course. He misses you so much.

Maybe I’ll tell him where you are.

Having only a city to go on’s not gonna stop Begbie now, isit?

Sick Boy

 

 

Mark Renton,

What’s it been now, just over a year? How time flies. Hope your investment’s going well over there and you have it all ready to return to us with interest. We miss you profusely of course, this side of the Channel. Cathy cooks me dinner most nights, likes to imagine she has a son here still. Your ma, she misses you more than nearly anyone. Except Francis of course. Your parents invite him round often too, let him help with the cooking, keep them safe – they even gave him a key. Very trusting people, your parents. I’ve always found that about the Rentons, a very trusting lot.

I’m not sure precisely where you’re staying right now – your address was smudged on your last letter. I’m sending this to a few likely places, hope I can catch you before I see you! Me and Franco’re thinking of a holiday, you see, think we might end up down your neck of the woods. It’ll be smashing to get back together again – I’m sure you’re just dying to see us.

Best,

Simon Williamson

 

 

 

Sick Boy copies out the last letter again carefully, adding it to the pile of identical copies. He’s tried to keep his handwriting in line throughout – tried to not let his anger show in the slanting letters and violently crossed ‘t’s. He doesn’t want to cause suspicion and send Renton running further before he can set eyes on him. Get his hands on him.

His anger confuses him, pulsing through his veins like the skag used to, consuming him until the feeling of it inside him is all he can bare to focus on. He tries to ignore it, to go on with his days – empty as they are – but his mind keeps screaming at him.

Renton, Renton, RENTON.

It’s like a fucking mantra absorbing him and eating up all his time. Obviously, this isn’t ideal. He can’t carry on like this: he's got a reputation to uphold, Sean would be ashamed to know he’d let a little thing like heart wrenching betrayal ruin his charming persona. He can’t let Sean down, wouldn’t be right. Sean always handles disloyalty with a witty one liner and a slick revenge plan. That’s what Sick Boy needs to do. He needs to get Mark Renton out of his head.

So: the letters. He’s looked it up, got the addresses of the shoddiest motels and hostels in Amsterdam, starting with the ones they went to or heard about when he and Renton went there before, the ones in the club district. He’ll send a copy of the letter to each of them. Management won't suspect a thing due to his charming wording but Renton will be scared shitless by the implications. Sick Boy almost feels bad about baiting Renton with the things about Cathy, using Begbie like that. It’s a myth the two of them perpetuated as much as anyone else: Begbie’s a headcase, Begbie’s a radge cunt who’ll turn at the drop of a hat, Begbie could kill a man. He and Rents used to mock Begbie as soon as his back was turned, wink at each other and imitate the older man. In retrospect, they’re both fucking lucky Begbie never turned around or caught them in the act. But that was part of the fun of it, the possibility of violence always in front of them, just tucked away in the shadows. There’s no one else in all of Leith who’s imagined the sick shit Begbie could do as much as he and Mark used to.

That’s why it’ll cut Renton so quickly when he sees those lines about his own ma being so close to Begbie now. He must know the cunt’s out for blood. He’ll imagine the worst possible thing and it’ll torment him. Of course he will. That’s what Sick Boy wants to happen. It is. Right?

Momentarily, he stalls. He almost feels bad.

But then he remembers waking up to Begbie yelling that the money was gone and Mark had legged it; he remembers the lack of four grand in his pocket and in his bank.

 _Fuck feelin bad_ , he decides, as he gathers up the letters and heads to the post office. He’ll have to remember to invoice Mark for the ten quid he’s spent on stamps too. Maybe he’ll keep a running count of all the expenses the doss cunt’s made him spend to track him down. Renton will pay him back if it’s the last thing he does: Sick Boy’ll get the money back even if it’s over Mark Renton’s dead body.

 _That’s better_ , he thinks, slipping into the anger and letting it burn through him. _That’s a line Sean’d respect._

 

Sick Boy,

I know it’s been a while since I wrote last. I wish it hadn’t been that fucking post card that you actually got. I wrote other letters you know, that you didn’t see. They were better. I suppose I meant some what I said but I know it aint all your fault. You should of seen it coming but I shouldn’t of done it neither. Maybe? ~~I don’t really know what to say~~ ~~This is harder than I thought~~

Amsterdam was more fun with you.

Anyway. It’d be nice if you didn’t hate me. If that’s not too much to ask.

Renton

 

 

Mark,

D’you know what the worst of it all is? I was fairly sure I didn’t give a fuck about you anymore. I was gonna drop you after the London gig – you couldn’t cut the skag however much shit you talked about quitting and you were dragging me down. I was in the club, thinking how I was done with you, planning on giving you the short shrift next time you tried to get me to do something with you.

Then you went and fuckin got out, didn’t you? I used to think – you know I did – I used to think how it’d be you to get out. And you proved me right to the last. Maybe you were more right than you thought in your doss postcard. Maybe I should’ve seen this coming. Leith couldn’t hold both of us forever.

~~Guess I just always thought we’d get out together.~~

Sick Boy

 

 

Sick Boy,

I run a club now, set it up myself with a friend of mine over here. We work ok together. But last night I couldn’t help wishing I was running it with you. I know I burnt my own bridges. ~~But couldn’t you just~~  I know.

Weather is decent, but honestly I’m starting to miss it pissing it down.

Mark

 

 

 

The tiredness has settled into Renton's bones, faintly throbbing, as he makes his way back to the hostel. It's gone three in the morning and the music from the club is still reverberating around his head: it had been a decent night but being surrounded by people E'd out of their heads is undoubtedly the hollowest experience he has had in quite a while, and the journey back to the hostel is more a ghostwalk than anything else.

–-- Mr Renton!

It's the young girl behind the desk. It seems like she has been waiting for him, for she jumps to attention as soon as he walks through the entrance. For a moment, Renton allows himself to imagine a strange, extended fantasy in which he rucks her skirt up over her hips and bends her over the desk, but the dream is expelled a moment later as she slides a letter over the counter towards him.

A rushing shudder of paranoia washes over him.

–-- Fir me? She looks at him as if he's dumb and Renton knows he must look it, slack-jawed with exhaustion and horror, unable to verbalise his sudden dread. –-- Thanks, he manages to force out after another long moment of quiet, grabbing the letter as if it might scorch his fingertips. Even without looking at the handwriting, he knows it is bad news. The distance between Amsterdam and Edinburgh collapses under the weight of the envelope.

He can't bring himself to look at it until he completes his shell-shocked walk back to his room. The corridors loom large on either side of him, illuminated by artificial yellow light, and he is trying to reason his way out of this emergency, _it might not be from Sick Boy, anyone else could've found me out, maybe it's Ma, maybe it's someone from the club, maybe maybe maybe_ but the walk lasts for what seems like hours and he can barely unclench his fingers from the envelope as he finally settles on the bed.

_I dinnae want tae dae this!!_

_What's the worst that can happen?_

It's the second thought that wins over: it's just words on a page. and he will read them, and then he will rip the letter up and get on with his life. He knows Sick Boy will be angry – will be hurt – will be mean. That's nothing new. So he steadies his hands, and peels open the envelope, and reads.

 they even gave him a key

 

Very trusting people                                                    your parents

                        I’m sure you’re just dying to see us

                                             

An image: the Generalissimo in his living room, baseball bat in one hand, screaming for his money. The TV: gone, smashed. A chair overturned. His mother crying, half-hysterical, white-faced; his father slumped on the floor, brains puddled in front of him. No Billy to protect them. _Mark wouldnae do that_ , his mother wheezes through sobs, _no my bairn_ , as Franco kicks a hole in the wall -

Another: Walking back from the club with the night sinking into blackness around him – the flash of a blade – Begbie's eyes whited out like a dog frothing with violence whilst Sick Boy stands there and watches, impassive, eyes boring into Renton's skull -

And another: the young girl from the reception downstairs giving Sick Boy the spare key to Renton's room, flushed and smiling up at him. And they stand there, Renton and Sick Boy, Mark and Simon, and the silence presses down on both of them, and and and and

Renton feels very far away from himself – as if the desperation is washing him away, as if he isn't a person at all but merely some stupid, daft screaming thoughts trapped in a body – as if he died in that hotel room in London and everything since then has been an odd, twisted form of Purgatory. Except, no matter how much he is being punished for his behaviour, his parents are still reaping the worst of it, still suffering from their inability to produce even one normal child – and another, stabbing line of Sick Boy's letter floats unbidden through the wordless chaos of his thoughts, _likes to imagine she has a son here still_ , and Renton nearly chokes on his own breath.

He has to get back to Leith somehow – but how? And why? And what can he possibly do?

It will be easier to think straight once he's calmed down.

And there's only one reliable way Renton knows of doing that.

Afterwards, of course, he'll think of a plan. Afterwards. But he owes it to his parents to dull the panic first. He'll be no use to them otherwise.

By the time he manages to write a response to Sick Boy, his hands aren't even shaking.

 

 

Simon,

I can get your money.

 ~~I can't believe you'd~~   ~~Bringing my family into it was a low blow, even for~~ ~~Can't believe I ever felt sorry for you~~

~~Please don't~~

Mark


	3. Anger, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sick Boy,
> 
> I don’t want to go back to Leith. Taking the money was my one shot at getting out and getting clean and you’ve fucked that up for me now! ~~I know I fucked up too.~~
> 
> Renton

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Begbie appears! In unrelated news, the warnings have been updated.

Renton,

~~It’s not about the dosh, for fuck’s sake! You fucked me over, that’s what I’m pissed off about. Betrayal. You can’t buy your way out of this one.~~

With interest?

Sick Boy

 

 

Sick Boy,

I won’t send this cos it’ll probably arrive after I do. But

I don’t want to go back to Leith. ~~I hate you for making me come back.~~ I’m burning all my bridges in Dam getting the money together  & I know I’ll never leave Edinburgh once I come back. Taking the money was my one shot at getting out ~~and getting clean~~ and you’ve fucked that up for me now!

I know I fucked up too.

Renton

 

 

 

How do you spend an entire sixteen thousand? Consider Spud’s share, sent to him in a fitful impulse of guilt and melancholy. Consider the club investment. Consider paying to live in a hostel for two years. Consider food, drinks, drugs, then more of the first two to mask the lack of the third. Consider bills and haircuts and new shoes when old ones begin to fall apart – consider fucking _expenses_. Modern society soon erodes what had been, in Renton’s conception, an unfathomable amount of money; modern society reduces it to intake and outtake, to debts owed and debts (sometimes) paid, to a sacrificial offering to government and state. He has barely anything to his name now.

Of course, he has the ‘security’ of the club, but what good is ‘security’ when Begbie comes knocking down his door? He can hardly sit the seething mass down on his bed and quietly coax him away from his spitting rages on the guarantee of ‘security’.

Sick Boy might understand, but the thought of Sick Boy twists something spiked in Renton’s chest – after the letter he had received from Sick Boy, he doesn’t think he knows what his one-time friend would understand any more. His mouth tastes sour when he recollects the contents of the letter – remembering the letter is now continually shadowed with the distant but ever familiar strain of withdrawal, and the more he tries to stifle the remembrance, the more his hands shake.

In Renton’s mind, there is only one reasonable solution to the problem at hand: theft.

As far as plans go, it doesn’t rate much lower that his panicked, desperate attempt to break into the chemical plant for morphine all those years ago, although this time there’s no Keezbo to take the fall. But scrounging the money from his ‘security’, his livelihood, the symbol of his longed for second chance – it feels dirty. As though his fingerprints are tainting the money with blackened smudges. Even as he walks down the street towards the club, the pavement feels as though it is tilting and blurring underneath his feet, and everyone is watching him, and Renton is gripped by a strong surge of paranoia that leaves his breath trapped fretfully in the back of his throat.

_It’s okay it’s okay it’s okay it’s OKAY IT’S OKAY IT’LL BE OKAY it’s okay it’s_

He spits out a mouthful of nauseous saliva and steels his nerves as he stands before the door of the club. No-one is suspecting him, not right now, and the money half belongs to him – he just hopes there is enough. The worst possible thing he can imagine is offering up a paltry percentage of the money to Sick Boy and watching his face twist in humiliated scorn; Renton has seen the look a lot, but never directed at him, and he certainly doesn’t care to experience that level of scorching disdain, not now when his nerves are so unsettled, when all he can think of is Begbie and his parents, and they’re sitting down to dinner and Begbie is ready to pounce, ready to go without any notice, just as he always used to at the pub when he would twitch and rock on the end of his seat just waiting for someone to piss him off-

Renton exhales sharply and enters the club.

 

 

 

Martin,

~~I’m fuckin sick of writing apology notes~~

Sorry about the money. I’ve run into a bit of a problem. I’ll send you your half one day ~~who am I kidding~~ when I’ve sorted myself out.

I really liked the thought of myself as a club owner, so thanks for that, it was barry to work with you.

~~Mark Renton~~

 

 

Renton,

YOU ABSOLUTE FUCK! I WILL SEARCH ALL OF DAM TILL I FIND YOUR CUNT ASS

(I was gonna send this from The One You Fucked Over but realised that might not be obvious enough with your history)

Martin

 

 

Rents,

A promise is a promise. You said you were ~~comin back~~ bringin my money. Where the fuck are you at?

Sick Boy

 

 

Renton,

Where’s my money?

SW

 

 

mark,

I no its bin a year im sorry I shud of wrote before. are ye comin back leith way? sometimes it feels the same likesay but then someonell mention ye and then theirs no stopping franco or si from shutting them down. likesay its not same ye no like it was before. i dint tell none about the compensation ye left me. that was kind ye mark. ye always were kind to me. I thought you mightof left the same to si maybe. franco says he was yer best friend but I no it was si. we all no it was si.

see ye soon maybe? I tried to see yer ma but she dint want talk tae me I guess. maybe she was busy. I might try again sometime its always barry to see yer rents.

miss ye mark

spud

 

 

 

When Francis Begbie asks you down for a drink with him, it isn’t a question of whether you wanted to, but rather whether you can think of a smart enough excuse fast enough. Sick Boy prides himself on his way with words; he blames the Mark Fucking Renton situation for distracting him from formulating a placating excuse in the seconds following Begbie asking. Anyway: here he is. And, as with most misfortunes and wayward turns in Simon Williamson’s life, it can be traced back to the same conceited fuck of a friend: Renton.

(He’s thinking about Mark too much, he’s noticed it more lately and is working on pushing it down. It’s just the overwhelming anger pounding through his body like an ounce of fire burning out his veins. It keeps turning his thoughts back to Mark.)

Begbie’s telling so exaggerated tale of his own greatness, throwing Simon a bone every now and then ( --- Aye, and ah’ve never sin anyin move as fast as ye did. Ye git him good and proper didnae ye?) and Sick Boy nods obediently.

Sick Boy knows the truth even as he nods and laughs --- good yin, Franco

He doesn’t let Begbie control him – Sick Boy’s mocking him, same as he always has – his side’s down one man but that’s not the sort of thing that’d stop George Best and Sick Boy’ll be damned if it stops him either. Truthfully, he doesn’t remember the fight Begbie’s recounting. He would bet the tenner in his pocket it never happened, but he’s nodding all the same. There’s nothing wrong with that. He’s not a dog, heeling when he’s called to, and nodding on cue. No. Simon Williamson would never stoop to that level: he’s the master manipulator. Begbie’s the dog, yapping at his feet, looking for treats and affirmation, no sense to look for anything else. Sick Boy’s leagues above that – he’s the owner, he’s the one holding the leash, leading Begbie along. This conversation belongs to Sick Boy.

Honestly, he doesn’t know where to begin.

This is the moment when he lays the trap – raises the bear’s hackles, then starts to lead it to its prey. This is the moment when he tells Begbie that one word – Amsterdam – Mark Renton is in Amsterdam. Five words. Five words to wipe a brush over everything that’s come before and erase it: five words to set up the next stage of this story, to give Mark what’s coming to him.

\---Huv ye heard anythin from Renton, Franco?

It takes a lot to derail Begbie mid-story (even more so when the tale’s origins lie more in myth and fiction).

\---Ah dinnae wanntae hear thit radge cunt’s name. He’s ootae ma life. He hisses the words at Sick Boy

\---Whaet’d ye sae, Franco, if ah tell ye ah kin where he mite be?

\---Do ye?

It’s one word. The name of a city. Hardly enough to kill a man. But Sick Boy’s tongue stills on the roof of his mouth. He’s not in the pub anymore. He’s in a room with Renton, telling him they’ll do something better than all this, telling him they’ll get out together now, wishing the phone hadn’t just rung.

\---Aye, ah heard he’s in Amsterdam, Franco. Thit new DJ from the club says he seen um there a coupleve months back.

Sick Boy lets the words drop out casually, injects them with enough of the venom he has stored up to let Begbie know where not to turn his anger. For a moment, Sick Boy is shocked to hear the truth come out of his mouth. He doesn’t mention the post cards, isn’t sure he could explain it if he tried. It’s hard to articulate the fucked up back and forth the two of them have been engaged in the past few months.

All this time, whilst Sick Boy’s mind races, Begbie is acting most unusually – he isn’t doing anything at al.

Begbie looks down into his pint in what, for anyone else, Sick Boy would think of as contemplative silence. On Begbie, it seems more like an accidental pause in the conversation, a record scratch, at disjoint with the rest of the track.

\---Franco, ye alrite?

\---Aye. He picks up his glass and Sick Boy remains very still, schooling himself in looking impartial, reminding himself not flinch. If violence is on the horizon, he doesn’t want to provoke it, but doesn’t want to avoid it so much it is turned on him. Navigating a Francis Begbie explosive moment is more delicate than disarming a bomb. Luckily, Simone’s the best at it bar none. (Well, fuck, okay – maybe one).

There’s a moment of possibility where visions rush forth and Sick Boy imagines he can hear the ringing of the glass in his head already. Then, instead, Begbie downs the pint. He drops the glass back down on the table. It wobbles, rights itself, doesn’t break.

\---Think ah’ll git me another. Goin tae bar, anythin fir ye?

\---Ah better git goin soon, Franco.

\---Yer eywis busy. Couldnae ye jist huv another pint?

It feels like tempting fate. But a rejection could light the fuse that Sick Boy can still smell, fizzling to an end and start a swedge.

\--Aye, yin more.

Begbie smiles like a rabid dog and heads for the bar. His back safely turned, Sick Boy puts his head in his hands and bangs it once against the table. _Ye stupid fuck_ , he thinks, maybe to himself, maybe to Begbie, _thit wis close_. Either fits the bill at this precise moment.

There’s barely anyone in the pub at this time. The two of them, in the booth to the side of the bar, and one of the posh twats from the city – probably waiting for his mate to get out of the lav then going to rush straight off. Begbie’s got to the front of the queue, Sick Boy sees, so he straightens up and rights his hair – checking he looks put together and not as freaked out as he possibly currently is. He’s done what he came here to do and done it without violence. No way can Begbie now accusing him of hiding interactions with Renton from him if the cunt ever resurfaces or anyone else catches wind of his whereabouts. It is a win win scenario. For everyone but Renton.

\---Ah wis here before ye – AH WIS HERE FIRST YE CUNT

Sick Boy takes a second to look morosely at the unbroken glasses in front of him. They were so close to avoiding this. The thought has barely run through his mind before he hears the unmistakable sound of glass breaking. Sick Boy is on his feet and pushing his stool back but doesn’t want to edge too close.

It’s the city bloke – the posh twat in a cheap ill-fitting suit. The jacket’s looking worse for wear, ruffled and hanging half off of him as he lays, sprawled out on the floor. The shocked look on his face is almost comical, the poor twat obviously didn’t expect cutting in front for a midday pint could leave him lying on the floor of an unfamiliar bar with a blossoming bruise on his forehead, blood dripping down from the cut.

Begbie’s not finished. He’s holding the glass aloft still, even though there’s blood on his own hand and Sick Boy thinks it might be his own, cut from the force of delivering the blow.

The girl behind the bar can’t be more than sixteen. She swears and edges into the back. _Sensible lass._ _At lest yin of us is,_ Sick Boy thinks.

Then, the man on the floor makes his second mistake. He laughs.

\---Whit the fuck wis thit? Cannae handle yer drink, ye fucker? The man pushes himself up slightly, almost onto his elbows.

Begbie’s hand shakes, visible tremors running through his body.

\---YE TRAITOROUS FUCK. There’s no warning before he jumps forwards and kicks the man in the head, not even bothering to aim for the gut first. It would be a square go – the glass is abandoned and no knives are drawn from the pocket where Sick Boy knows they are hidden – but the other man never had a chance. Begbie pulls his leg back and kicks again. The man screams and tries to put his hands out but isn’t quick enough before Begbie’s boot connects with his jaw. There’s a groan, lower and more guttural than Sick Boy’s heard before.

Over the confusion and the speed of the moment, the three old men edge away, and one of them obviously gets to a phone, makes a call. Begbie’s shouting at the man to stop screaming even whilst he kicks his head again. There is a _thunk_ like a football hitting the side of metal wall of the enclosed pitch and the man’s not screaming anymore.

\---Ah fuck. Sick Boy is still, motionless, watching the scene unfold like a ghost even after Begbie is finally finished. Begbie steps through the mess and sits at an empty bar stool. Sick Boy doesn’t move, eyes wide in shock. He’s still stood there when the police arrive, staring at the space where the man’s laughing face had been.

 

 

 

Spud,

I've missed you loads, Spud. I'm heading down Leith way soon – don't suppose you can lend me your sofa for a night or two? Don't really fancy crashing in my old room ~~especially not with Begbie around~~

Dunno if this will reach you before I do. Hope you're ok.

Renton

 

 

Renton,

Thank fuck you'll never find out about me telling Beggars you were in Amsterdam.

Should've known you were making shite up about coming back to Leith, so I don't feel that bad about it. Some men just don't like being taken for a ride. Got it in one, Sean.

Sick Boy

 

 

 

Every nerve in Renton's body is screaming for him to turn the other way as he walks out of the airport. _Ah could get oan the next plane an gae anywhere_ , he thinks wistfully, but even as the thought is formed in the back of his mind it wilts and fades. Taking the money and running was meant to be the one, unforgivable act he could perform so that he could never make his way back to Scotland, no matter how desperately he wanted to – he had imagined himself sealing up his past life and watching it float down the river, away away away, and yet here he is.

The Edinburgh sun is weak and filmy, splattered across the sky like a runny egg. He's not carrying anywhere near as much money as he had been when fleeing to Amsterdam and yet it still seems to burn into his back as he shifts the weight of his bag. For a moment he stands on the pavement and can't will his body to move, no matter how long he stands there or how many people flick confused glances his way.

It is only when Sick Boy's letter floats to the forefront of his mind – Begbie, and his parents, and the blood congealing in the carpet his ma painstakingly cleans every week – that he jolts into movement.

He gets on a bus, and then another one, and feels his heart lurch in sickening rhythm with the poorly maintained roads.

As soon as he steps off the bus and on to the familiar Leith pavements, Renton feels exposed and suddenly cold. The past two years in Amsterdam are peeled away from his skin, and suddenly he is younger again, and mindless, and stupid, and smearing his life along the gutters in the streets for the sheer hell of it. He thinks, with a pang, of Martin and the club in Amsterdam – the furtive way he had rifled through the safe, pored over the documents, felt his eardrums nearly split with the hammering of his heartbeat. All of that seems a lifetime away from the reality of his home town.

The route to Spud's house is imprinted into Renton's muscle memory, which is lucky as he is entirely too sick with paranoia to focus on where he is going. Everywhere he turns, he is struck with phantoms of his past selves running and kicking at the edge of the curb and flicking cigarette ash away from his body, and every move seems to trample over these past selves and grind them underfoot. He thinks of Sick Boy and his chest aches. _How did it come tae this?_

He stumbles on Spud's doorstep, entirely lost in thought.

 _Ah could gae now_ , he thinks optimistically, _there's still time tae gae. Ah cannae see Sick Boy again, ah cannae dae it_. But that is the problem with Leith: once you have seen one friend, you have seen them all. And he had promised Sick Boy.

But first.

He knocks on Spud's door.


End file.
